Molt

In spring you shed

mad winter growth;

wonder plumage

enviable by any bird.

Rite of passage

ushers in your time

of seasonal regeneration,

hints of immortality.

Dust hangs in the air.

Mound of shavings on the floor.

A glance in the mirror leaves

you barely recognizable.

You emerge shorn,

pale and summer-ready,

protected by nothing but expectancy
and your skin.

tk/June 2015

Elegant read by R.A.D. Stainforth...

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Primavera

Splendid cocoon.

I no longer live at home;

have taken up residence in my room

like a semi-detached adolescent.

Sleep is supposed to let the demons out.

I compose letters with doodles in the margins.

No need to replace the bulb in the bedside lamp.

I have developed night vision.

I believe in scenery, look out the window. 

Monkey swing branch to branch in the maple. 

Steal from the sleeping cap peddler.

Throw down my hat.  Sweat.

Turn my pillow, search for the cool side.

Pace around like waiting for a biopsy.

Accentuate my hard R's.  Then roll them.

I am ready for Carnegie Hall.

I pray to the electric fan.

Belt it.  Sounds like yodeling.

My hair blows out in a radiant halo,

grows long enough to cover my Venus bits.

Time stands still like I am twelve.

I rise one last time from the open mattress.  

Dust bunnies pollinate the air.
My wings visceral and lacy in the dark.

tk/May 2015

A superb delivery by R.A.D. Stainforth...

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Picasso's Eye

Picasso's eye is lodged

in the sugar maple,

like a scuttled vessel

brooding in the limbs.

It no longer dispenses

late night wisdom,

early morning insight,

from the perch outside my room.

The all-knowing stare

becomes reluctant

under chlorophyll eyelids,

dark spring rain.

My psyche's new caretaker

scries wet kisses in leaves,

with flop of roses,

gentle thrust of trees.

tk/March 2015 

Sumptuous read by R.A.D. ...

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Pissabed?

After a winter of  monotone, spring's rapid green always takes me by surprise. I forget just how green; the speed of dandelions. I used to tag along with my grandmother, along rural Indiana roads, collecting enormous bouquets of dandelion greens. Did they grow more lush and tall then, or was it that I was smaller? We would come home with mountains of greens, to be trimmed and simmered with bits of bacon, canned and stored for the following winter.  

My local Kroger store carries dandelion greens in season. But what's the fun of eating them, if you haven't properly foraged? There was some discussion on Facebook last week about eating pokeweed greens. Apparently, they are poisonous, so they have to be cooked and drained three times before sauteing. Somehow that takes away from the fun of the hunt. I'm sticking to dandelion greens...or spinach...for that matter. It tastes the same. 

The dandelion was long popularly known as the pissabed 

because of its supposed diuretic properties, 

and other names in everyday use included mare's fart, 

naked ladies, twitch-ballock, hounds-piss, open arse, and bum-towel.

― Bill Bryson, A Short History of Nearly Everything

*dandelion at Willow Manor

Circle of Life

Mad wings beat― 

hover, peep, tumble

from fairy tale, Easter basket.

It knows it should fly.

How did it stray from the line?

I chase, bent down.

Hands stretched.

Come to mama.

Life flashes before my eyes;

friendly persuasion.

Can I keep it?

O! gosling mine― 

dark precision drops from the sky

pulling silent pink ribbons

gripped with no emotion.

tk/May 2014


 R.A.D. Stainforth's best rendering...emotion beautifully captured... 

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image: Chair With the Wings of a Vulture, 1960, Salvador Dali 

April

Daffodils under;

lace flung reckless to the cold,

bare green splayed.

What are you wearing?

Blades of grass act as informants;

buds heed innocent faces,

pretend to be plastic.

Winter is high on the lash;

sends April running to the lavatory,

licks speed from her hand.

I kiss. You stay kissed.

It will melt soon enough;

every bit squeezed, drowned,

trickled down, murmuring.

tk/April 2014

R.A.D. Stainforth enjoys a glass of wine...contemplates April...

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*photo: Finland, 1968, by George F. Mobley

Dust

O! claustrophobic air―

apparent and busy in the sun.

Dust hangs in waves of spring,

a universe from the bliss of nowhere.

What fallen star, what robin,

what powdered sooth plays a second chance?

Follow flotsam to the horizon,

cross the bridge through gathering cloud.

Inhale motes and flutter-boats―

the balm of dusk explodes a single sigh.

tk/April 2014

Sexy read by a springy R.A.D. Stainforth...

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Bee

Windows open,

flags unfurl merry

for the drone parachutist,

fever on wings.

Global-scented lines buzz

unsucked and sweet;

constant as carrier pigeons

in the Great War.

Pollen is everywhere;

impeccable flocked spring,

piled high and yellow

for the taking.

Accord awaits, honeyed,

barely breathed,

motionless with yearning―
little sins madden the sting.

tk/April 2014




R.A.D. Stainforth adds a little stingy-zing... 

*photo by Francesca Woodman 

Refit

The walls are empty,

pocked with nail holes,

shadows of pictures―

a room without windows.

Too many years

since the piano was tuned.

Behind the sofa no longer

a good place to hide.

Laughter sleeps like stones

under shroud sheets.

I have forgotten

the dance, the lampshade.

I pull a chamois from my pocket―

not going over Jordan―just spring cleaning.

Dust smells new:  a scent of yellow.

The holes stare with tiny, hammered eyes.

I could use a shovel. 

tk/March 2014

R.A.D. Stainforth breathes a bit of freshness to my words:

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*Lee Plaza Hotel, Detroit, photo by Bonnie Beechler

First Warm Day

Spring, 1935 by Kuzma Petrov-Vodin 

The sun coaxes yellow

from flat cocoons,

in early evening sinks slow

behind the exhale of passing cars.

I cradle you in crossed arms,

twilight sheets―

starlings nest in the loft,

your hair smells grassy, like tea―

I drink dandelion portions.

Love grows like children,

steady, unnoticed in winter―

then bursts at the seams.

Suddenly we've outgrown

all of last year's spring.

tk/April 2013 

Thank you R.A.D. Stainforth for this beautiful read. 

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Ides of March

March Morning, the Scioto River 

On this Ides of March eve, I contemplate change. In the original Roman calendar, March was, very appropriately, the first month of the year. By this time, snow has melted to pre-spring neutral. I adore everything winter ... the snow, fresh cold air, woolly clothes, and the comfort food that goes with. But this year, even I am anticipating green. I have a new-found appreciation for all things pink. It's still a bit on the chilly side, but I have a window open in the Willow Manor kitchen, and a big bunch of pink tulips. I may even take the Christmas wreath off the front door, in celebration.

February Thaw

R.A.D. Stainforth ... another lovely read ...

It's warm enough

to bring down the windows―

drive as if it were spring.

Wind swims upstream

through my hair,

like a shoal of narrow pickerel,

smearing their sticky eggs

in my shallow parts,

pausing here and there

to mouth my face,

suck any evidence of winter

from my surface.

tk/February 2013

Wind of History, Jacek Yerka 

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Buttsprung

Charming R.A.D. Stainforth in his black and white world ... he nearly smiles here ...

Spring jumps in,
like some kind of joke,

runs at confused birds,
chases flowers with a faux nose.

Veins earthworm his arms.

He juggles dormant trees,
popcorns the sky,
flings yellow,

Wild as a buttsprung umbrella.

tk/April 2012




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image: The Circus With The Yellow Clown, 1967, Marc Chagall

peonies

ants peel petals from

miniature cabbages

soft peppermint pink

Raindrops on the first peony at Willow Manor...

they're so early this year!

lemony = spring

I love to make lemony things in the spring, so I dug out this recipe, which I haven't made in several years. You're gonna love this savory lemony-ness.  It's delicious served with red potatoes, couscous, or rice.  And best of all, like almost all the dishes I make, it's quick and easy. Give this a whirl and let me know how you like it. Notice the Blue Willow? Julia would be proud.

Willow's Chicken Francaise

(ingredients are approximate ... I'm not big on measuring)

4 large boneless skinless chicken breasts
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1 cup flour
3/4 tsp salt
1/2 tsp pepper
2 large eggs
1/2 stick butter
1/2 cup dry white wine
1/2 cup low sodium chicken broth
2 Tbsp freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 Tbsp flour
2 Tbsp half and half
1 tsp tarragon (or 1/4 cup chopped fresh flat leaf parsley)
1 whole lemon, thinly sliced

Place chicken breasts between 2 sheets of plastic wrap and gently pound with flat side of a meat mallet until 1/4 inch thick.

Heat oil in a 15 inch heavy skillet over moderate heat til hot.

While oil is heating, stir together flour, salt, pepper in shallow bowl. Dredge chicken, one piece at a time in flour mixture, shaking off excess. Lightly beat eggs in another shallow bowl. When oil is hot, dip floured chicken into beaten eggs to coat, letting excess drip off.

Then fry, turning over once, until golden brown and cooked through. Transfer to a plate lined with paper towels and cover loosely with foil.

Pour off and discard oil, then heat butter over low heat until foam subsides. Add wine, broth and lemon juice and boil, uncovered, stirring occasionally until sauce is reduced to about 3/4 cup or so.

Whisk in about 1 Tbsp flour, then remove from heat and whisk in about 2 Tbsp of half and half. (Sauce should be on the thin side.) Add tarragon or parsley. Immediately spoon sauce over chicken, top with lemon slices and serve.

limpid gray

Scotio River today, Dublin, Ohio

Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth! 

Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees! 
Earth of departed sunset―earth of the mountains misty-topt! 
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! 
Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river! 
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! 
Far-swooping elbow'd earth―rich apple-blossom'd earth! 
Smile, for your lover comes.

― Walt Whitman

only god can make a tree

click to embiggen

We recently lost a majestic pine tree in a storm at Willow Manor.  It was most likely a tornado, that came literally swirling out of nowhere, with the sound of a freight train, throwing all kinds of limbs and debris against the front windows, which happen to face west.

I'm not one to be afraid of storms, in fact, I rather enjoy the drama of an ominous sky, and claps of thunder that reverberate off the limestone Scioto River basin behind the house.  But this storm scared me. It roared through and was gone in the space of just a few minutes, pulling up large trees by the roots along a mile stretch of our road.

I have a certain spiritual connection to trees, and hate to see one, especially this old, come down.  I love to place my hands on a tree and feel the peace and strength it exudes.  This wise one was about 100 years old, since I counted nearly 96 rings, which means it was here even before the house was built in 1927.  I'm sure it will be proud to keep Willow Manor toasty-warm for several winters to come.

As the poet said, 'Only God can make a tree', 

probably because it's so hard to figure out 

how to get the bark on.

Woody Allen

we are who we were

peonies, my favorite flower, after the rain, Willow Manor, May 2011

Flowers really do intoxicate me.  

Vita Sackville-West

Have a safe and happy Memorial Day weekend, my friends.
  
Don't forget to visit the grave 
of a loved one and pay tribute; after all, 
we are who we were.

spring taters

I've never met a potato I didn't love. I know, I'm always saying it's my Irish DNA speaking, but it is. This variation is perfect for spring, infused with a glorious pairing of lemon and dill.  Quick and easy, peasy, too.  Tell me if you don't love this as much as I do.

Roasted Potatoes and Lemon with Dill

2 pounds of new potatoes, halved
1 lemon, thinly sliced
2 Tbsp olive oil
sea salt, freshly ground pepper
2 Tbsp coarsely chopped fresh dill  (don't be tempted to use the dry, grab some fresh)

(all measurements approximate)

Heat oven to 450.  On a rimmed baking sheet, toss the potatoes and lemon with the oil , 3/4 tsp salt and 1/4 tsp pepper.  Roast, tossing once, until tender, 25 to 30 minutes.  Toss with the dill, while hot.  Large puddle of ketchup is optional.

It is easy to halve the potato where there is love.

Irish saying

vamp

Seducing spring-starved
to a pagan breakfast
of fertile eggs-over-easy
and fresh-squeezed green,

she pants to repopulate,
as tender winter-lips
are somewhat bruised
in a stampede of kisses.

Coaxed to a feverish pitch
of rose hips and nakedness,
only to her early exit, hobbling
out, a one-legged mother,

cane raised in thunder-pout,
conjuring fickle winds
without orgasm, and spits,
sycophant, in your eye.


Tess Kincaid
April 2011